


Joan's Story

by TanyaReed



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanyaReed/pseuds/TanyaReed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little something out of Joan's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joan's Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kateandbarrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateandbarrel/gifts).



> I've never written in this universe before, and the journey was interesting. Thanks, grawpy, for giving me the opportunity. I hope you enjoy the story.
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta, turtle_goose.

Joan was in an unfamiliar corridor. It was long and white and unbroken. Silence surrounded her; it was an empty, creepy silence, and the feeling made the hair stand up on her arms.

“Hello?” she asked.

The word echoed back to her, and the sound was so stark and lonely that she didn't want to try again.

Fear started to curl in Joan's stomach, and she clenched her hands at her sides. Something was waiting for her in the silence; she could feel it. Tension hung thick in the air, and she had to fight down a panicked instinct to flee.

Forcing calm on herself, Joan randomly chose a direction and started down the stark hallway. She had only gone a couple of steps when the lights flickered. Her strides had been purposeful, defying her nerves. At the threat of darkness, she faltered.

It was at that moment that a desperate scream rent the air. The panicked sound was so shocking that Joan froze completely. More screams followed the first, and they were riddled with the loud, sharp popping of gunshots.

“Joan!” The sound of her name being yelled through the cacophony of noise galvanized her. She knew that voice, cared deeply for its owner.

She was immediately in motion, running towards the screams. The white corridor went on unbroken, and she ran and ran and ran.

“Where are you?” she panted to herself. “Where is the door?”

Suddenly, she was stumbling into a room. It was large and full of people. When she entered, the screams and shouting stopped and there was almost absolute silence. The only sound was of a man whimpering.

As Joan walked forward, the crowd parted, allowing her to pass.

In the centre of the room, she found him. He was lying on his back, his arms and legs akimbo. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, and his face was ashen. 

“Everything's all right, now. Joan's here.” The words came first from one mouth, then gathered up strength, moving through the crowd. One voice became two, two became ten, ten became dozens.

Joan tried to ignore the voices as she sank to her knees beside Sherlock. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his teeth were clenched.

“Sherlock?” she asked.

Suddenly, there was something cold in her hand. Joan clenched her fist around it but was unable to look away from her friend. His eyelids had fluttered open and eyes that were usually filled with shrewd intelligence were cloudy with pain.

Another murmur went through the crowd surrounding her. Joan wrenched her gaze from Sherlock to glance at them, but the faces were all blurry and indistinct. She was raising a hand to reach for someone, to plead for help, when she noticed the object she was holding. 

It was a scalpel.

The whole room suddenly went deathly quiet, and Joan knew what she had to do. She could feel the expectation in the room as the back of her neck began to tingle.

“Do it, Joanie,” someone said. She couldn't tell whom. “You have to do it.”

“I can't,” she whispered as she continued to stare at the scalpel. “I haven't been able to since...”

Her hands started to shake.

“There's no one else. If you don't do it, he will die.”

Joan turned back to Sherlock. The signs of shock and physical distress were obvious. The bullet had to be removed. The wound had to be tended to. His life was draining as she knelt there frozen.

Joan's chest tightened almost painfully as fear claimed her. It started in her stomach, rolling it, and moved outwards. She shivered and the shaking in her hands worsened. It was so bad that she had to tighten her grip on the scalpel so she wouldn't drop it.

“Do it, Joan. What are you waiting for?” the voice prodded.

She tried to reach forward, tried to do something, but she couldn't. What if she killed him?

She tried to tell herself that he would die anyway if nothing were done. She tried to tell herself that she was his only chance at life. At first, it seemed as if reason would overpower fear, and she reached out and forced herself to open his shirt.

And then she saw his wound.

There was a clatter as the scalpel slipped from her numb fingers to the floor.

“I can't,” she said. “I can'...I can't...I can't...”

Quickly, she got to her feet and turned away. The crowd was close behind her. Their eyes burned into her. 

“I'm sorry...”

XXX

Joan jerked awake with her heart racing and her muscles tense. The sun shone dimly through her window. The sheets were tangled around her.

Blinking, she tried to control her breathing and smother the panic.

It wasn't the first time she'd had the dream. During her hospital suspension, she'd had it every night. The person who she was helpless to save was usually her mother or her father. Eventually, the frequency had lessened, until she only had it once every couple of months. Since she'd started working with Sherlock, it had come back with a vengeance. More often than not, the victim was Sherlock, and she woke up feeling terror, grief, and shame.

Joan pushed those feelings away now, angry at her subconscious. In sharp, jerky motions, she grabbed an elastic from her bedside table and put her long hair up into a loose ponytail. Without bothering to concede anything else to the morning, she padded sleepily down the stairs.

When she entered the kitchen, Sherlock was already there eating a very large bowl of cereal. His eyes were still sleepy, and his hair was mussed. He hadn't bothered to dress either, and his robe fell open to reveal blue and green plaid pajamas.

Joan ignored him and headed for the cupboard. Once there, she rummaged around until she found her hidden stash of chocolate chip cookies. It was a chocolate chip cookie kind of morning. 

“Had that dream again, did you, Watson?” Sherlock asked as she reached into the bag.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Most mornings, you have fruit or cereal. Today is a cookie morning.”

“So, I like to change it up. Big deal.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “On the days when you eat cookies—invariably chocolate chip—your skin is pale and you forget to put on your slippers. I assume this is caused by a recurring, rather unpleasant dream.” 

Joan felt annoyed but didn't deny it. “So what if I did?”

He studied her for a moment, watching in silence as she ate three cookies, before asking, “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

He watched her for a few seconds more before saying, “All right. We've received a call from Gregson. We need to be at the station in an hour.”

“A murder?”

“I'm not sure.” Sherlock shrugged. “He didn't say.”

Joan shoved the bag back in the cupboard. The sharpness of the dream was receding and she was starting to feel more like herself. “Then I guess I'd better go get dressed.”

“Good plan.” He took another bite of his cereal and chewed, his eyes finally leaving her.

Joan sighed and scrubbed a hand over her face, turning to leave the room.

“Oh, and, Watson?”

“Yeah?”

“Good job yesterday. You trusted your instincts, and your logic was impeccable.”

Warmth filled her, chasing the last of the lingering darkness left from her dream away. Praise from Sherlock was rare, but when he said it, he meant it.

Smiling, she glanced at him. “Thanks.”

“It's the truth...Wear your wellies.”

She frowned. “My wellies? What for?”

“You'll see.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Don't take all day.”

She grumbled to herself as she left the room, but she actually felt a lot better. That's the way life seemed to be with Sherlock. Sometimes he drove her crazy, but there were other times when he knew exactly the right thing to say.

It was true that she was no longer a doctor, and it was true that the idea of operating again terrified her. Going up the stairs, Joan contemplated this and discovered she was okay with it. Those things did not make her any less of a person, they didn't make her useless. She was doing valuable work, and she was still saving lives. In fact, she was getting better and better at it every day.

Her mind went to the young woman whose life her deductive reasoning had saved just the day before. That incident was proof that her work with Sherlock was turning into something amazing.

For a long time after her patient's death, Joan had felt like a failure. It had followed her around from addict to addict, no matter how many she helped. It was with her so long that it had begun to define her.

As Joan pulled off her pajama top, she felt herself smiling because she realized something important. Not only was she learning new skills and helping to save lives. Not only was she happy for the first time in ages. Most importantly, she no longer felt like a failure.


End file.
